A Christmas Carol
by Ophelia B
Summary: A Newsies Rendition of Charles Dickens 'A Christmas Carol' featuring our very own Spot Conlon. For a class assignment. On Hiatus.


So, this is being written for my Contemporary Literature class. It's due after Christmas break so that means this will be finished by then (or so I hope as I don't really want to fail the class).

We had to choose one story and somehow change it, but keep the overall theme the same. So, after much convincing, I talked him into letting me do a crossover of two stories, combining them into one. The result: _A Christmas Carol_ featuring _Newsies_! I figured why not post on get opinions on it before it's turned in so I can (hopefully) ace this project.

Also, the chapter's titles (aside from this one due to me changing Marley's ghost into Marve's) are the same as the one's in Charles Dickens' story. A stave is a music staff or verse in a song. Dickens used it instead of "chapter" for a humorous effect. A play on the title, I suppose.

Disclaimer: Charles Dickens owns _A Christmas Carol_ and Disney owns _Newsies_.

**Stave I: Marve's Ghost**

Spot pulled his thin, worn-out coat tighter around him, the collar folded up and his head low in an attempt to avoid letting the cold air bite at his skin. As he walked down the street the bottom of his trousers would rise just enough to reveal a bit of his ankle. Spot could feel himself on the verge of frostbite. The wind would some how manage to seek out that sliver of naked skin, mercilessly probing it like a thousand tiny needles.

Whenever he walked down a street, no one approached him. There was never any small talk. There wasn't anything more than stares and whispers where Spot would reply with nothing but his arrogant smirk. And that was exactly how he liked it. Spot didn't have time to waste "chatting it up" about trivial things; he had a city to run. Unless they could come up with something worth his time to listen to, he didn't want to hear it.

Thick fog along with snow coated the air: a heinous combination. Street lamps hardly helped illuminate the streets as he walked. Sometimes, he'd bump into someone, unable to see them until it was a moment too late.

Spot's eyes were strained, causing him to be on the brink of a head ache, as he struggled to make out the silhouette of the buildings three or four down from him.

He stopped when he was in front of a charming little restaurant. It had recently become a favorite of his and he was considered a regular. Spot was just about to open the door when he saw a sign in the window.

"_Closed for the Christmas holiday."_

His blue-gray eyes narrowed after he read the words, the numbed hands that were jammed in his coat pockets in search of warmth now clenched into tight fists. The stupid restaurant owner even went as far as using green and red font. Such an ugly color combination.

"Christmas." He stated bitterly. "Could there possibly be a more pointless day?"

Spot loathed Christmas just as much, if not, more than he did the winter season in general. It was a poor excuse for snotty children to beg their parents for things they didn't truly need or deserve. It was also the worst selling day. No one cared about current events on Christmas. No one even went outside on Christmas. They only cared about sitting in their house, shoveling plate loads of food down their throats to the point where the trouser buttons were ready to burst off and go soaring across the room.

It didn't help that that Christmas Eve also happened to be the third-year anniversary of Marve's (Brooklyn's co-leader) death. He had got in the middle of a gang fight and was stabbed right there in the middle of the street. Bled to death. It may have been three years ago, but Spot still could recall every detail of the way Marve looked lying there on the ground. The way the blood-stained snow contrasted so much with the untouched snow. But hey. That was Brooklyn for you.

Christmas also made starving people, such as himself, make trips to certain restaurants only to find that said trip was equally as pointless as Christmas. It forced them to tread through ice and snow for nothing at all. Such a stupid, gluttonous holiday.

As if on cue, a group of carolers broke into song in the street corner across from him. Had it not been for his already numbed hands, Spot would have pelted the group with snowballs until they learned not to disturb people while they tried to mind their own business. His fists clenched even tighter, regaining a limited amount of feeling back in his fingers; it was all he could do to not punch the window with the ugly sign out.

"Hope you lazy bums know you're losin' customers with that stupid sign," Spot said to the door, as if the owner were secretly listening. Deciding not to waste any more time, he turned quickly on his heel and began to stalk back down the way he came.

Spot kept his coat on when he stalked into the lodging house, still frozen from his disappointing walk. His fellow Brooklyn newsies were in the middle of a game of poker with Manhattan's very own Racetrack Higgins.

They all glanced up from their cards when they heard the door slam closed, but didn't say a word, knowing how moody Spot was around the holidays. It was Christmas Eve, so they expected him to be even more harsh than he had been the previous weeks.

The Italian threw his cards in the middle of the table, his way of folding. He ran a calloused hand through his thick hair and looked over at Spot again.

Spot was now sitting in a chair, his feet resting on the table in front of him. He didn't care that he was getting melting snow all over the table (though the lodging house manager was surely going to scold him as soon as he was noticed). Spot pulled his collar up to cover his ears in hopes of warming them. They had turned a brilliant shade of red from the cold.

"Merry Christmas, Spot," Race said with a grin, taking a drag off his cigar. His tone was only slightly sarcastic.

"There ain't nothin' merry about it," he retorted icily, shooting the other boy a look. When Race's gaze faltered, Spot gave a satisfied smirk before moving his gaze back up to the grimy ceiling with a sigh.

"Aw, what's wrong? Spotty ain't got no Christmas spirit?" Race grinned. He accidentally flicked the ashes of his cigar onto himself, so he stood before dusting off his plaid vest and mis-matched plaid trousers. After every trace of ash was gone, he sauntered over to Spot's table and sat backwards in the wooden chair across from him.

"Ain't nothin' spiritual about some fat guy tryin' to squeeze down a chimney, Race. Just plain stupid."

He laughed, shaking his head. "See, that's your problem, Spot."

"My problem?" Spot almost looked amused at that comment. _Almost_. "What exactly is my problem again?"

"You don't know what Christmas is about."

That time, Spot _was_ amused. He let out a loud laugh to prove it. "It's an excuse for spoiled, snot-nosed kids to get even more junk they don't need. What else is there to know?"

"It's about givin' back."

"It's about _greed,_" Spot corrected.

Race took another drag of his cigar, giving up on trying to convince Spot of the "wonders" of Christmas. He knew there would be no way to win the argument. "Well, listen... You should come to 'Hattan tomorrow. Celebrate with the rest of the fellas."

"Obviously you don't get it," Spot rolled his eyes. "I ain't celebratin' nothin', Race. You can go shove a Christmas tree down your throat for all I care."

Finally, all the fun had ended. Race had to leave before it got too dark out (hitched a ride on the back of a carriage most likely) and the other boys had retired upstairs to sleep. Spot, however, was still wide-awake. He didn't sleep on Christmas Eve. It made Christmas come all the more slower.

The sound of the door being swung open disturbed him from his thoughts. He saw a frozen boy walk in ever-so cautiously and stop in front of the front desk. Spot couldn't make out anything he said; the boy was talking too quietly. The manager of the lodging house gave the boy a pitying look as the boy continued to speak.

Curiosity and some annoyance taking over, Spot strolled over to the desk. Of course, he'd justify him wanting to know what's going on as him being the Brooklyn leader and needing to know these things.

"So what's goin' on over here, eh?" He asked the manager, scanning the kid suspiciously.

"This poor boy's looking for a place to stay. Look at him, he's freezing!" he replied. By the way the manager spoke, it seemed as if Spot had more authority than he did. Like Spot was the one truly running things and he just let the manager stay to humor him.

The boy looked at Spot nervously, blowing in his hands and rubbing them together quickly to demonstrate how frozen he was.

"Please sir... I haven't got any money—"

Spot arched an eyebrow. "You ain't got any money then what are you doin' here?"

"Come on now, Spot. This kid is going to freeze to death outside! His lips are already turning blue," The manager said softly.

"You're breakin' my heart."

The kid frowned.

"Look, kid. You need to pay the man just like everyone else. What makes you think you're so special?"

"Spot, just let him stay. It's Christmas." The manager said, causing Spot to growl.

"So? Christmas is a day just like any other. How you s'posed to make money if you go around givin' away free beds?"

The manager stayed quiet.

"Sorry kid." Spot stated. It was obvious by his tone that 'sorry' was not one of this things Spot was feeling at that moment. "We ain't takin' in no charity cases."

The small boy looked appalled by Spot's coldness. He opened his mouth to say something, but the King of Brooklyn cut him off with a preemptive glare. With that, the boy just turned silently, his head hanging low in shame, and started towards the door.

The manager frowned at Spot who responded with a small shrug. Shaking his head, disappointed in the boy's cold-hearted actions, he grabbed the box full of the other lodger's money and headed to his own bed.

Spot stayed behind, still not quite feeling tired enough to sleep. He sat in his chair again, rubbing his temples softly as he pondered. As he happened to be glancing around the room, he could've sworn he saw the face of his dead co-leader in the small window in the door.

The face held no emotion, yet didn't resemble that of a corpse either. Marve's head still held his dark, matted hair, his face still tanned as if he had just spent the majority of the summer out at the docks. He looked exactly as he did when he was alive.

Hastily, Spot rubbed his eyes and looked back. He sighed in relief when the face had vanished. The window was empty, nothing blocking his view of the building across the street but fog.

Excusing it as him being more tired than he had once thought, Spot made his way upstairs to his very own room he had once shared with Marve. He finally took off his coat and shoes, setting them next to his bed. He leaned his cane against the small table and set his cap on top of the bed post.

He sat on his bed, using his thumb and forefinger to rub his eyes gently. Spot's head perked when he heard a series of loud noises. It sounded like a metal chain being repeatedly bumped into a solid surface... like stairs.

Spot's eyebrows furrowed as he hesitantly grabbed his cane, standing, ready for the person who dared invade his territory uninvited.

The door to his room swung open. Spot nearly dropped his gold-tipped cane when he saw who was standing there in his doorway.

It was Marve. It was the same face he had seen in the window. He was dressed the exact same he had been the day he died, minus the bloodstains. Marve was clad in a worn white shirt, a black vest, and matching black trousers. They hung on his body the exact same too. The shirt too big, the vest just the right size, but slightly tight due to the excess fabric of the shirt. The pants fitting everywhere but in length.

The only difference in the appearance of his old friend was the transparency of him and the heavy chain wrapped and weaved around his body. After further examination, he noted the chain seemed to be made up as if it were a charm bracelet. Steel versions of newspapers, hats resembling those of policemen, keys, and other various items.

Spot looked absolutely horrified. The real Marve (the one with a pulse) would have laughed hysterically, making snide comments about how funny he looked. The ghost's face, however, did not waver.

"What... What are you?" Spot asked incredulously, backing up until he bumped the table behind him.

"Do you really have to ask?" Marve responded easily, sitting on the bed that once belonged to him. His chains clanked loudly together as they did, making Spot even more uneasy.

"This..." Spot shook his head. "This ain't possible. I'm hallucinatin'. I just need a night's sleep." He tried reasoning with himself, fooling himself into believing Marve wasn't sitting there in front of him. It couldn't be. Marve was dead. Spot saw it happen. He watched when the doctor pronounced him deceased.

"You don't believe your eyes?"

"It's a little hard to believe the sight of a ghost sittin' in me room if that's what your askin'!"

"Well, old pal. Believe it 'cause I ain't goin' away so soon." Marve watched as Spot moved to sit down on his own bed in the spot farthest away from him.

Spot watched the ghost cautiously, his insides trembling. He wasn't a coward but surely the sight of a dead friend in their bedroom would disturb anyone.

"What do you want?" He tried to keep his tone steady as he spoke.

"I'm here to warn you," Marve stated.

"Warn me about what?"

"You see this chain I'm wearin'?" Marve continued after Spot nodded. "I made it myself. Flashy, ain't it? It weighs me down while I'm forced to walk among you guys. I didn't exactly live my life the greatest, so now I'm forced to wander. Ain't never allowed to cross over."

Spot stared, confused.

"Me and the others who lived like me ain't ever allowed to stop wanderin'. We can't ever rest. I ain't ever been passed the distribution office, Spot."

"So what's this gotta do with me?"

"What this gotta do with you is that you ain't doing the greatest either. In fact, things might be worse for you than me. The chain you'se was bearin' three years ago was just as long as the one I got now. With all this stupid attitude you got, you'se just addin' to it."

"What?" Spot asked, confused. "I ain't never worn no chain--"

"Think about it, Spot."

"There's a way around this, is there?" Spot asked hopefully, not listening to Marve's previous instructions.

"Yeah, you got a chance to escape a fate like mine. That's why I'm here."

"Well, what do I gotta do, Marve?"

"You'se gonna be visted by three spirits," Marve stated vaguely.

"What?! Three? Ain't there some other—"

"Shut up, Spot! I ain't got much longer to tell you this."

Spot quickly shut his mouth and waited for the ghost of his friend to continue.

"A'right. One's gonna be here tomorrow at one. The second, at the same time the next day. The third will be the next night at twelve." Marve announced, heading towards the door. Spot didn't say a word as he walked through it with ease. He heard the familiar clanks of the chain as it headed down the stairs, but after a minute they were gone.


End file.
